


Blood Brothers

by RuinNine



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Animal Traits, Developing Relationship, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 03:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21385081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinNine/pseuds/RuinNine
Summary: Most of the time, Rick doesn't know what exactly he and the Suicide Squad are dealing with. Most of the time, he follows hunches instead of orders. And sometimes, that even works out.
Relationships: GQ Edwards/Waylon Jones, Rick Flag/Floyd Lawton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 156





	Blood Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> No native speaker. No money. Just fun.
> 
> Credit for the title goes to Iron Maiden. Awesome song, guys!  
Credit for encouragement goes to Lu - thank you, darling, for checking this out! ;)

\<|>/  
  
  
Rick didn't think the additional background knowledge he had gathered about each and every squad member would ever come in handy. Not like this.  
  
He was ready to admit, just to himself, that he could have handled the whole Midway disaster a lot better than he had. He had known next to nothing about these people that had been thrust into his team and therefore his care _and_ (here comes the actual problem) in front of his gun, too. He was used to leading soldiers who obeyed his orders without talking back and who watched out for him just like he was watching out for them. What he was _not_ used to was leading a bunch of metahumans with questionable obeying qualities who never shut up and who certainly couldn't be trusted to watch his back. That they were superior to himself and everyone else on his team in terms of strength, aim, speed and whatnot did nothing to ease his nerves.  
  
On the contrary.  
  
The glaringly obvious power imbalances set his teeth on edge right from the start. With his worry about June and the growing resentment towards Waller and her Almighty attitude on top of that, he was ready to go off at the slightest provocation. The squad had many of those lined up. He had even considered quitting the whole circus along the way. Many times.  
  
But. June.  
  
So he had grit his teeth, grudgingly made nice with the bad guys (and girl), went on with the witch-hunt – and actually escaped that clusterfuck with a half-decent team in tow. And June. Who was not the same, after. Which was ironic, since he had never really known June, just her, without a mind split in two, without the constant vigilance, the constant fear of losing her. That still happened, in the end, and while it hurt (how could it not, with such a mind-blowing experience tying them together), they agreed a short while after (after the bruises faded, after the nightmares became manageable, after they could finally bear to lose sight of one another again) that any debts they owed the other had been paid. They still respected each other, and maybe it was still love, but their paths were inevitably drifting apart and eventually separated.  
  
At that point, he had been declared ready to return to field work, and without the distraction of protecting June (but not without the pain, at first), he could finally focus on his team. It still felt strange to think of that bunch of misfits as a team, but Rick had earned his position as its leader with his stellar military career. He was experienced, reliable, smart, level-headed under pressure – and he cared about the lives of the men and women under his command. All these traits he could fall back on, now that the world wasn't ending and he had the time to think about the best way to actually _lead_ this team (besides, he was not hung up anymore on the illusion that, with all the blood and bad decisions on his hands, he didn't qualify as a bad guy just like they did).  
  
The abusive guards at Belle Reve were the first to go. It was still a prison, no doubt about it. But needless torture and sick mind games couldn't serve as groundwork for the trust that was needed among squad members who relied on each other to survive. Replacing the guards with a handpicked team of high-level military personnel had proved to be harder to push past Waller. But in the end, his arguments (permanent strike team instead of prison guards = more collective training instead of gathering dust in cells = more success = less damage/fatalities = less waste of money) had won her over. Reluctantly, and with a look in her eyes he associated with the image of a thumb hovering over an absurd death app (where, for all he knew, his own picture might be included).  
  
Being able to interview every candidate individually gave him the chance to sniff out any sadistic tendencies and stealthily estimate their willingness to surround themselves with a daily dose of utterly crazy. No wonder he ended up with a motley band of soldiers almost as colorful and off-the-wall as the squad itself. But Rick knew better than to complain. Waller's sour face was definitely worth the hassle. And, despite all the alarmist bellyaching Rick had to endure from Waller and her superiors until he had finally assembled his team, the results shut them up pretty quickly.  
  
Sure, there had been bumps in the road in the beginning. On the one hand, the squad did not trust the sudden peace offering nor the attempts of their new team mates at getting to know them better despite the bars separating them. On the other hand, the soldier half of their circus did not appreciate the hostile reception of the squad. But once Rick had introduced a new boot camp routine where the squad could regularly leave their cells and beat the shit out of training dummies and each other, the tension began to ease up a bit.  
  
Kudos for that should definitely go to GQ, above everyone else. Rick had not dared hope he would agree to return to the madness after narrowly escaping with his life intact in Midway City, but he hadn't hesitated a single second when Rick offered. That had been a huge relief. Finding a suitable successor for the spot of second-in-command would have been a serious pain in the ass, and Rick was glad he had someone at his side he knew well and trusted implicitly (and who wasn't afraid to voice his honest opinion on matters, even if that meant he questioned the position of his commanding officer). Besides, he got on with Croc like a house on fire. And the others, on both sides of the fence, they sort of just fell into line.  
  
Their story had started with grudging respect in the flooded tunnels beneath Midway City, fighting side by side to get their part of the mission done, and a split-second decision. After all, Croc had just that one second on the timer to make up his mind about saving GQ's life as well as pulling him under and shielding him with his body as the bomb went off. Apart from a few burns and nasty scrapes, both had emerged from the tunnels barely the worse for wear, but equipped with a new sense of esteem they held the other in. Add their shared love of water, prolonged periods of silence and music videos of the 90s, and you had an odd, but solid friendship in the making. And maybe something else, even, if Rick dared read more into the ease with which they worked together on missions and spent their off-time together.  
  
Which is exactly the problem now.  
  
The mission had required nothing more than staking out an industrial site with a small private harbor attached and confirming whether the metahuman they'd been looking for had set up camp there as the underworld grapevine suggested. It did not require big flashy guns, swords or boomerangs, not yet, so only Croc and GQ moved in underwater to check out the disappointingly uneventful perimeter. Frankly, after four hours of repeated reports of 'nothing yet', Rick was more than ready to call them back. But then the shooting started. Followed by yelling and growling. Then silence as the connection wavered and turned to static.  
  
So the big guns were needed after all.  
  
Rick has assembled the squad and a small, but lethal team of SEALs in record time, and yet the site is already abandoned when they finally arrive. Documents have been burned, computers fried, any merchandise that had been stored there has been moved. What remains are about a dozen bodies of men armed with machine guns, and thanks to the precise headshots and bloody throats, it isn't difficult to determine who killed them. Croc and GQ, however, are nowhere to be seen.  
  
Suppressing the worry setting in immediately, Rick divides the evac team into search parties of SEALs, squad members and medics. He himself leads the way for Deadshot, Landon and a medic called Johnson around the main building and towards the smaller storage depots lining the high fence behind. On the way, they find nothing of interest except two more bodies, torn apart even more viciously than the others, big splatters of blood scattered all over the concrete. Definitely dead, Rick thinks darkly, and redirects his attention to the path ahead.  
  
“Hey, Flag.”  
  
Rick turns to Deadshot, trusting Landon to keep an eye out to their surroundings. The assassin is peering at something on the ground. “What is it?”  
  
“Blood.” Rick opens his mouth to say 'blood is _everywhere_ around here', but something in Deadshot's face makes him pause. “The trail is leading away from here.”  
  
Fingers on the trigger, they cautiously follow the path of ever-growing blood stains to one of the depots. The door is slightly ajar, but the room behind it is dark and silent. Rick presses up against the wall next to the frame, peering inside without moving the door. He can just about make out a switch on the wall and he signals Landon to cover him once he pushes open the door and hits the lights. Landon nods, grip on his gun tightening, and then Rick is through the door and bright neon light floods the mostly empty room. The shelves lining the walls are bare save for a few half-undone reels of packaging film, and only one of the corners is occupied – by Croc and GQ.  
  
So they haven't been taken. Rick exhales a rush of air and holsters his gun. “Hey,” he greets, moving forward to check on them. “You guys good?”  
  
A menacing growl stops him mid-step. Hands automatically rising to show he is unarmed, he frowns at Croc as he takes in the situation. The crocodile man is hunched into the corner in a defensive crouch, sharp teeth bared, and he's holding GQ tightly against his chest. Who is not moving at all, fresh blotches of blood lining his diving suit like a sick sort of camouflage. Rick can't tell if he's still breathing or not.  
  
Forcing down that thought, he focuses back on Croc. “Hey, buddy, you should let Johnson here see GQ, okay? He needs medical attention.”  
  
There is no answer.  
  
“Croc,” he tries again. “What's wrong?”  
  
Again, no answer. More growling instead.  
  
“Flag.” Deadshot's voice is quiet, carefully inoffensive. “See the dart in his leg?”  
  
There is indeed a dart protruding from Croc's left leg. It looks like one of those syringe arrows zoo vets use on predators. Now that he knows what he should be looking for, Rick can see Croc's stance is not as solid as it usually is, and his eyes are narrowed and constantly shifting, as if he's having trouble staying focused on them. It also explains why he won't talk to him. In his addled state, he probably can't tell friend from foe, all his energy spent on one thing only – protecting GQ at all cost, someone he considers a close friend at the very least, maybe even an intended mate. Oh, shit.  
  
“Should I...?”  
  
Deadshot is holding his dart gun that serves exactly the same purpose as the one already used on Croc – drop someone into a coma without killing them – and he's looking at Rick for the order to shoot. “No!” The shout is louder than he intended to. It echoes in the small room and makes Croc cower even lower, visibly gearing up to just go for it and fight his way out with GQ in tow. “No,” Rick repeats, barely above a whisper. “He could accidentally crush GQ.” Or kill them all.  
  
Deadshot gives him a look that dares him to have a better idea. Which, yeah, maybe he does. It's stupid and risky as hell and God, so stupid. Like lots-of-potential-of-losing-his-life-over-a-mere-hunch-stupid. But with the Suicide Squad, that's kind of a daily occurrence. It's not like he knows what he's actually dealing with half the time.  
  
“Right,” Rick mutters, almost under his breath. “Plan B, then.” The thought makes him slightly ill.  
  
“And what exactly,” Deadshot says pointedly, with an ominous pause, “is plan B?” He sounds like he'd rather not know, but asks just in case something goes wrong and he needs to shoot someone after all.  
  
But Rick is already in order-mode, and not in the mood to get laughed at for his mad idea. (This is entirely too serious, he could actually die if he is wrong.) “Get Edwards' blood transfusion supply from the chopper,” he tells Johnson. “And bring an injection gun.”  
  
Deadshot waits just long enough for the medic to take off in a hurry. “You are, what, gonna inject him from over here?”  
  
The blatant skepticism is grating on Rick's nerves, but he tries to focus on what he's about to do. He can feel himself going pale while thinking about it, an unforgivable weakness in the presence of Deadshot. Not that he still considers Deadshot (or any of the others, for that matter) a threat to himself anymore, not really. He got good at lying about that to Waller, too.  
  
Thankfully, Deadshot does not badger him for an answer, so they spend a minute or two waiting in silence, trying to look friendly while still barring the door. It wouldn't do to give Croc any ideas about fleeing. He is still watching them, alert, but he makes no move to attack them, either. Whatever was in that dart obviously not only messed with his head, but with his body, too. Otherwise, they might already be dead.  
  
Johnson returns, panting, and thrusts the injection gun into Rick's hands, filled to the brim with GQ's blood. Oh God. He's actually going to do this. But Rick is saved from fretting when Croc reacts to all the fuss, pulling GQ's motionless body tighter against him, a deep growl rumbling up his throat. The anxious sound pushes Rick back on track. “Hold this,” he tells Deadshot, hands him the gun before he can protest and rolls up his right sleeve. “You stay, quietly. Everyone else – out.”  
  
With GQ out of commission, Deadshot is the closest Rick has to a second-in-command, and he can be trusted to keep it together when things get weird. But he has a problem with direct orders for sure. “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
Usually, he can tune him out just fine, but in this particular instance, Rick can feel his hackles rise. There is so little time left. “If it's all the same to you,” he snarls, voice low as not to aggravate Croc further, “I'm going to try and save GQ's life. If you can get on board with that, fine, but _do as I say_.”  
  
Deadshot opens his mouth, looks at Croc and GQ, snaps it shut again. Rick doesn't turn to check if Landon and Johnson are gone, reaches for the injection gun instead. Deadshot, unexpectedly, lets go immediately. However, when Rick takes a deep breath and raises the gun to the soft spot in the crook of his elbow, the short reprieve is over. “What you injecting _yourself_ for?!”  
  
“Shut up,” he bites out, then pulls the trigger.  
  
It feels _so wrong_.  
  
As if he's violating GQ in some way. He can feel the foreign blood enter his veins, spreading fast, blending in with his own. For a short and terrible second, he thinks he's going to be sick. But then he grits his teeth against the bile rising in his throat, lets the empty gun fall to the floor and sets out towards Croc's corner.  
  
“_Rick!”  
  
_Deadshot sounds completely bewildered (bewildered enough to use his first name in the field), with a good deal of trepidation thrown in for good measure, and Rick would love to see the matching face to go with it, but he's got more important things to do. Like not die.  
  
“Get ready,” he tosses over his shoulder. He says no more, trusts Deadshot to know what to do. Croc may not be entirely himself right now, but he is neither deaf nor dumb and they need to make sure GQ is safe before dealing with him. Shit could hit the fan real quick if he catches on to what's going on.  
  
At a respectable distance, he slowly sinks into a crouch, chin dipped low and eyes cast down to the ground. Still, Croc tenses, the growls ripping from his mouth becoming more feral, a clear warning. The hair at the nape of his neck is standing on end, and Rick tries not to give in to his flight instinct instantly kicking in as he reaches out. His hand is shaking so badly even Deadshot must be able to see it, but he is eerily silent for once, an unmoving wall of support at his back (he tries not to think about how this looks like from the outside). For a few seconds, that is all that is happening, his spread fingers trembling in mid-air as he focuses on not reflexively making a fist, a clear sign of attack that would surely end his life, and GQ's along with it.  
  
Then Croc suddenly stops growling. Tilts his head, confused, nostrils flaring.  
  
Holy shit, it's actually working. Rick has to clear his throat to convince it to respond. “Hey, buddy.” He slips forward half a pace on his knees, then another when Croc doesn't seem inclined to pounce on him. “That's right, you can trust me. I want to help GQ.” Another. “Will you let me?”  
  
He can practically see Croc mull it over in his head, trying to push through the drug haze clouding his judgment and make sense of the weird smell coming off him, part-Rick and part-GQ. Rick decides to press the advantage while he still can. “GQ is like a brother to me,” he says, softly, knows the words align with the strange scent Croc is puzzling over. He slides forward another pace. “I want to save his life. _Will you let me?”  
  
_At first, nothing happens. Croc sways from side to side, indecisive, and GQ looks so pale in his arms, so still. Worry spikes in Rick's gut as he hovers, close but not quite close enough, sweat gathering on his brow. Time is running out, he knows it. Despair piles onto the worry and he is about to start shouting instead of the quiet coaxing he's done before when Croc relaxes a tiny fraction. He loosens his grip on GQ, rocking back to give Rick more room in their makeshift huddle.  
  
Alright then, Rick thinks. He forces himself to bridge the final few inches, lays a hand on GQ's forehead and rubs a thumb over his feverish temple. Lightly, though. He is not planning on accidentally claiming GQ (which would surely speed along his funeral). Instead, he simply mingles their scents, then bends down to nuzzle along his jaw, just as lightly. All the while, Croc watches silently, and Rick can't tell whether he's doing this right. Maybe not and his throat will be torn open any second.  
  
It's not how it goes. Nodding, Croc pulls away completely, lets Rick take GQ from his arms. “Thank you,” Rick says, as sincerely as he's ever said it, and tries not to wonder how much of the cold wetness he feels covering GQ's diving suit is water and how much is blood.  
  
Croc doesn't answer, not in words anyway. He suddenly leans forward, and it takes a lot of effort not to jerk back in response. Rick watches him warily, clutching GQ to his chest, heart racing. What the hell is happening now? What is it Croc is waiting for? Rick thought he's been managing quite well so far – and then he gets it. What Croc is offering. He closes his eyes, inclines his head until his forehead touches Croc's, lets it rest there for a brief moment. “Thank you,” he says, again. “I'll take good care of him, brother.” Croc makes a tiny huffy sound, consent maybe, it's hard to tell. Rick will take it. “Now.”  
  
The dart passes by so close to his face he can feel the rush of air ruffling a stray strand of hair stuck to his temple. It hits Croc in the shoulder, and he barely has enough time to gather a look of betrayal before he slumps over, unconscious. Rick takes a deep breath, relief flooding his body, quickly followed by an unexpected bout of queasiness. That's weird, he thinks. He should be alright, now that everything went just as planned. His hands start shaking again, a roaring sound growing steadily louder in his ears, and his heart is stumbling along ridiculously fast in his chest.  
  
A shadow appears next to him, followed by a familiar voice. “Please tell me you knew your blood types were compatible.”  
  
Huh, Rick manages (in his head or out loud, he has no idea). He did not stop to think about that.  
  
A resigned sigh follows him into the darkness.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
It's the first thing he remembers when he abruptly returns to the light, stomach rolling and heart hammering against his ribcage like it's trying to escape. His limbs feel like lead, impossibly heavy, and his thoughts are skittish like a litter of kittens in a bag, scrambling and evading his grasp whenever he thinks he got a hold of them. He shifts, unthinkingly bending his right elbow, and _ow_, that _hurts_. Pinpricks stab him in the soft skin there like needles, the pain quickly spreading up to his shoulder and down his arm. He can almost _feel_ it crawling through his veins. Nausea grips him, slicking a cold hand over his forehead and down his throat, crushing his innards like a vice.  
  
“Hnng,” he says, and he's pretty sure it's out loud, because the noise sets off a chain reaction.  
  
There's the sound of a chair scraping across the floor (tiles, his brain supplies helpfully), a flurry of movement beside him (beside the bed, he's lying in a bed), the familiar clicking of safety catches on guns being released (guards)(hostiles?), a deep growl (Croc) and finally shouting (Deadshot, GQ).  
  
_GQ_.  
  
Rick forces his eyes open, blinking against the tears rushing them at the bright lights overhead, looks around wildly until he can make out his second-in-command in the next bed over. GQ is struggling to sit up and wave his arms as best he can while hooked up to more wires and cables than a computer, yelling at the guards to _stand the fuck down_. Then he turns to Rick, and when their eyes lock, Rick might lose one of those tears after all, because he is alive. The bastard is actually alive. A look of immense relief flits over GQ's face, probably mirrored in Rick's own, and then they grin at each other. It's more of a subtle tug at the corner of their mouths than a full-blown smirk, and if it's a little wobbly around the edges, no one else needs to know.  
  
Of course, the moment is instantly ruined. “Yeah, yeah, there'll be time for crying later, you pair of goddamn ballerinas,” Deadshot grouses from the other side of his bed (the chair) and scoffs when Rick turns his teary gaze to him. “Before we all hug and braid each other's hair, maybe you could...?”  
  
He vaguely gestures towards the rest of the room. There are seven soldiers surrounding the door, four of them still with their guns raised, the rest watching uneasily as Croc prowls in a tight circle in the corner, agitated but not yet gearing up to attack. Right. Rick clears his throat twice (ow), then pulls up his most stern commander face. “Stand down,” he orders, and he's glad his scratchy voice, even lower than normal, is just barely distinguishable. “Retreat.”  
  
For a second, nobody moves. Then one of the SEALs steps forward. Keenan, maybe. It's hard to tell through all the uniform layers. “Sir?”  
  
Rick frowns and gives her a nasty glare, and when that doesn't help (stupid hospital attire, undermining his authority), he pitches his voice to a deceptively calm and dangerous cadence. “I said retreat. Lock the door from the outside.”  
  
That sends them running, the door smacking shut behind them. Satisfied he's still got it in him, Rick relaxes back into the pillows, wincing as the movement sends a fresh wave of pins and needles through his arm. God_dammit_, it's not like he had arm-wrestled with Croc. He merely injected himself with some blood that wasn't his. Jesus, his body should get a fucking grip! “Stupid shit,” he mutters, fingers flexing uncontrollably and catching in the wires piling in his own bed.  
  
“Oh, really?” And uh-oh, Deadshot sounds _pissed_. Rick can make out hands on hips and tense shoulders from the corner of his eye. Better focus on the ceiling. “Care to explain that stunt you pulled?”  
  
“Well-”  
  
“Do you know _anything_ about the risks of injecting incompatible blood?”  
  
“No, but-”  
  
“Didn't you learn _something_ in your stupid little army boyscout tryouts?”  
  
“Floyd-”  
  
“Don't you Floyd me, you cheeky motherfucker!” Floyd exhales a forceful breath, his voice dropping low. “Didn't you know you could have _died?”  
  
_Rick ponders responding with 'technically, yes', but he likes his head attached to his neck, thank you very much. So he sighs instead and chances a glance into Floyd's general direction. He looks tired and run-down more than angry, now. Damn. “I'm sorry I risked all of your heads.”  
  
It's an old argument, they've had it a thousand times before, and Floyd's sneer shows him what he thinks of it. “It wasn't my head I was worried about, douchebag.”  
  
There's no sting in it, though, and Rick allows himself a sigh of relief. “I'm sorry,” he says again, quietly.  
  
Floyd gives him a disbelieving look, then a corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile. “Yeah, well, I don't need your apologies. I need you alive, though.”  
  
Interesting tone he says it in, Rick notes (stores the information away to be picked apart later). But he doesn't relent. “Still,” he says, turning to GQ and Croc instead. They have been watching the exchange with something akin to amusement. The whole thing is an old hat to their squad. Somebody always does some heroic shit that lands them in the ward while the others yell and rage to cover up the fact they've been freaking out with worry. “I am sorry.”  
  
His voice has grown faint, and without warning, his eyelids start drooping. Oh, right, he has actually been knocked flat on his ass by a puny injection gun. “Bitch,” he mumbles, already half-way to sleep. The last thing he feels is a warm hand swiping across his forehead, pushing his hair back into order.  
  
“Bedtime, soldier.”  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
Next time he comes to, it's less of a shock and more an uneasy shift. Thank God. The pain is still there, but it's descended into a steady pulse now instead of a sharp, breathtaking sting, and Rick allows himself a moment to be glad he survived. It's hard to remember to do that, sometimes, when he sits at someone else's bedside after a mission turned madhouse, when he fills out endless piles of paperwork, when he is forced to make a family call he doesn't want to make (they have become fewer and fewer, but he still has to pick up the receiver from time to time). But even though he doesn't know exactly how close he came to rattling on the gates of hell, he can feel how narrowly he missed the stairs leading down into the pit.  
  
“What's the frown for?”  
  
Rick knows better than to startle. Deadshot can move like a freaking ghost. He opens his eyes, a small grin breaking out. “Missed me?”  
  
“Huh,” Floyd snorts. “You wish.”  
  
Apparently, Rick feels adventurous today. “Maybe.” Must be the drugs.  
  
The short flicker of surprise that crosses Floyd's face is totally worth it (he also got escorted to shower and change, that's good – one thing less to argue about). Grin widening, Rick takes in the general room situation. The lights are all dimmed, except for a little reading lamp on the locker at Floyd's elbow. GQ is curled up in his bed, sound asleep. Croc has settled in on the floor beside it, head propped up against the bedframe so he can watch over him. When he feels Rick's gaze on him, his vibrant eyes narrow and the scaled ridge in the middle of his forehead creases.  
  
Rick is not sure whether it's a question or an accusation, so he attempts to cover both bases. “I, uh, I'm not sure how much you remember.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly wishing the crocodile man remembered nothing at all. “You seemed pretty out of it.”  
  
The following pause is so long Rick thinks Croc might not answer at all, but then a gentle rumbling sound emerges from his throat. It might be laughter, who the heck knows. “You tricked me.” Okay, harsh. But he's not finished yet, so Rick bites his tongue. “But you saved him, too. Can't stay mad over that.”  
  
“Good. That's good. I'm sorry, though. You know, for... tricking you.”  
  
Croc shrugs, and that is that.  
  
Floyd is not satisfied just as easily. “So you-” He stops, thinks about how to phrase his question. Then tries again. “You actually knew what you were doing?”  
  
And apparently, Rick has lost all sense of self-preservation among multiple doses of strong pain meds. “Not really, no.” Floyd's jaw ticks, forecasting a storm, so Rick tries to explain with minimal damage. “I looked up a bunch of stuff about reptiles and crocodiles. That's it. Thought it might help me understand better.”  
  
Floyd is not impressed. “A bunch of stuff, huh.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Like what?” Floyd's grim expression is beginning to brighten now. He obviously enjoys Rick's squirming. Figures. “Feeding? Mating rituals?”  
  
Rick can feel the blush explode on his face even before he risks a glance at Croc and catches the incredulous stare he's giving him. However, one look at Floyd's gloating expression elevates the anger above the embarrassment. He pushes himself up straight against the pillows, ignoring his body's numerous complaints. “Yeah,” he snaps. “Mating rituals. In my defense, Google saved a life for once, so there.”  
  
Like a shark after blood, Floyd is not so easily deterred. He seems to be enjoying Rick's discomfort more than he is disgusted by what he just admitted to, though. Small mercies. “Come on, man. What makes Croc's mating rituals-” Here, he draws quotation marks into the air. “-any business of yours?” Rick hesitates, but can't prevent his eyes from straying to GQ, however briefly. It is more than enough for a marksman like Floyd Lawton to pick up on. He follows his line of sight, then laughs. “Are you kidding me?”  
  
Rick sighs, looks over to Croc for support, gets none. Gee, thanks. “It worked,” he insists, stubborn and just a little petulant.  
  
“Still creepy, man.”  
  
Rick considers either yelling or leaping from the bed and smashing the reading lamp to pieces over Deadshot's head, but a sleepy voice interrupts him (good thing that is, either option would have hurt like a bitch). “What's going on? Croc?”  
  
At the sound of his name, Croc rolls to his feet so fast Rick is plagued with a surge of envy for the crocodile man's incredible healing abilities and leans over, fingers skimming gently along GQ's jaw. “The usual.”  
  
GQ snorts as his eyes slip shut again. He nuzzles into Croc's palm, then reaches for his hand. “Okay,” he mumbles. His breathing pattern immediately deepens and then he's back under. He doesn't let go, and Croc perches on the edge of the bed, obediently holding on. It would be ridiculously funny if it weren't also the most adorable thing Rick has ever seen.  
  
“Ah,” Floyd says, and Rick does a little victory dance in his head at his gobsmacked expression. “Now I get it.”  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
That is all that's said about that for a while. GQ and Croc are smart and discreet (even Rick doesn't really know if something happened between them, and if so, what exactly), the soldiers are mostly indifferent, and Rick keeps getting better at tracking down leaks within Belle Reve and sending Waller on wild-goose chases with false intel instead. It helps that the woman is _busy_. Their squad is not her only pet project and when there is no mission to supervise, she has better things to do than watch the annoyingly repetitive prison feed 24/7.  
  
The topic surfaces again a few weeks later in the middle of Rick's hard-earned post-mission nap. Granted, he had gone out with only Katana and Deadshot on a strictly non-engaging recon gig, so he didn't really have to pull out all the stops, but hell, he rarely managed to squeeze in any well-deserved down time around here. Some paper always needed his signature, someone always needed his opinion on something, Floyd was always asking him to take him to see his daughter and so on. Not that he didn't enjoy the latter especially, but after turning this whole joint upside down and building it back up, there was little to no alone time left for Rick. He didn't mind, mostly, but sometimes, that sucked.  
  
It particularly sucks when a soldier comes crashing through the doorway of his office just as he's on the brink of drifting off, yelling something that includes the words 'GQ', 'lost signal' and 'unconscious'. Rick jumps up off the couch, ignoring the way the soldier takes back a step, and picks up his gun where he has set it down on the side table. “Say that again.” The guard gulps in air and Rick holds up a hand. _“Slowly.”  
  
_The guard salutes, then visibly pulls himself together. “Yes, sir! Edwards' chip tracking his vital signs sent an alarm to the control center, claiming he just lost consciousness.”  
  
Damn. “Any chance the chip is malfunctioning and he's simply asleep?”  
  
“No, sir.” The answer is quick and sure. Good, at least he has remembered to ask the people running control before he took off to bother Rick with this.  
  
“Where is he?”  
  
This answer comes haltingly. “Croc's cell, sir.”  
  
Okay. Now Rick knows why they have sent someone to fetch him. Croc never confirmed that the stunt he pulled with the mixed blood changed anything between him and Rick. But he knows it did. Whenever they are sent on a mission together and Croc is brought out of his cell, he relaxes as soon as he sees Rick is coming along, too. He has never growled or bared his teeth at him again, not even when he was seriously pissed off about something.  
  
Croc never confirmed it, but Rick guesses he is family now, a blood brother to GQ whose life he saved almost at the cost of his own. So he always gets to handle Croc's moods personally, since he is the only one who can talk him down when GQ isn't there to do it for him. He hurries down the corridors towards the basement, pays no mind to the other members of the squad calling after him through the bars, demanding to know what all the fuss is about. He shoos the soldiers loitering close to Croc's cell away to the end of the hall, then punches in the access code.  
  
When the door finally swings open and he strides in, gun at the ready, it takes him a moment to properly assess the situation in the dim light coming from the TV. Shortly after the blood incident, Croc had used one of his post-mission wishes to exchange his couch for a bed that is as wide as the runway next to his pool will allow. He's in it now, maybe naked (Rick is glad he opted for sheets, so he doesn't have to find out), and the way he holds himself reminds Rick sharply of the way he had been hovering with a badly injured GQ in his lap, half-mad with grief and snarling at everything that moved. GQ is also lying there (also maybe naked), mostly covered by Croc's bulk and unresponsive. Just like last time. Without relaxing the grip on his gun, Rick locks eyes with Croc – who is as calm as Rick has ever seen him.  
  
Nothing about this makes sense and it puts him on edge.  
  
“You guys okay,” he asks and gets a short nod in return. “What happened?”  
  
Croc doesn't miss a beat. “I ate him.”  
  
Rick blinks at that. As far as he can see, GQ is not missing a limb, or even a chunk of flesh the size of Croc's jaw. If anything, he looks healthy and relaxed, with his breathing deep and his skin not pale at all, and – Rick blinks again as he finally realizes what Croc actually meant.  
  
Later, in a briefing just between the two of them, GQ will reluctantly admit (and only to avoid the possibility of impending punishment for Croc) that yes, he had blacked out from a simple blowjob, because it turned out Croc's tongue was 'definitely not human'. Rick could have lived on perfectly fine without knowing that, but then again, it was also the _most amazing _piece of leverage Rick had ever managed to acquire. Sometimes, his job was seriously the best.  
  
And for the first time ever, while he is standing there staring at Croc's impassive, yet impossibly smug face and at GQ finally stirring and coming to (before shrieking for 'some fucking privacy, man') – Rick Flag laughs so hard he cries.  
  
  
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Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece: [Status Quo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21859771)


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